6
Now these eyes illurn'd with gladness,
As they scan’d thy beauties o’er,
Ne'er again shall melt in sadness,
Parting to return no more,
Caledonia, native land,
Native land, I’ll love the ever.
Native land, tho’ fate may banish,
And command me far to part,
Never can thy mem’ry vanish,
From this glowing, gratefnl heart,
Let an Indian solstice burn me,
Or the snows of Norway chill,
Hither still, my heart, I turn thee,
Here, my country, thou art still,
Caledonia, native land,
Native land, I’ll love thee ever.
THE WARRIOR BARD.
The Minstrel Boy to the war is gone,
In the ranks of death you’ll find him,
His father’s sword he has girded on,
And his wild harp slung behind him.—
"Land of song!" said the warrior-bard,
"Tho’ all the world betrays thee,
"One sword, at least thy rights shall guard;
"One faithful harp shall praise thee!"
